


Apathy

by primamagnus



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Background Relationships, Blood and Gore, Character Development, Developing Relationship, Disturbing Themes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, False Identity, Intrusive Thoughts, Kidnapping, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Murder, Not Beta Read, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pennywise (IT) in Love, Pennywise (IT) is His Own Warning, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, Reader-Insert, Serial Killers, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Stalking, To Be Edited, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited Love, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-24 22:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22165336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primamagnus/pseuds/primamagnus
Summary: It gives you something neither of you want.Please heed the tags.
Relationships: Pennywise (IT) & Reader, Pennywise (IT)/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 63





	1. Delphinium Grandiflorum

**Author's Note:**

> I've been getting really deep into the insight of a character I'm writing in a story of mine, and this idea managed to pop up. Plus, there's a lack of IT fics with a generally-unlikable/bad protagonist. It's definitely different from my other stories, and will be very dark. Story is set in second person view, but the "Reader" is a character with pre-established traits. This Reader is really unlikable, and heavily different from my other Reader-labelled characters. You have been warned.
> 
> Please don't skip the tags.
> 
>  **Additional Info:**  
>  Please do not repost/translate this work on any other website without my permission.
> 
>  _Apathy_ is to only be posted under my user ( **primamagnus** ) on Archive of Our Own exclusively. This is a non-commercial fanfiction, and is not intended to represent any real people. All characters and source material belong to their rightful owners, and I do not claim any ownership over any of them except for my own characters.
> 
> This story was written without a beta reader, so please excuse me if there are any grammatical/spelling errors.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is a species of _Delphinium_ known by the common names Siberian Larkspur and Chinese Delphinium. It is native to Russia and China.

You like the feeling of blood.

You enjoy the way it sticks to your skin, matting your hair against your back; splattering your clothes in red. You like the feeling of washing it away, staining the murky green water with it until the metallic smell of it fills your nose. It’s so red that you can’t see your reflection, but every now and then you do - deceiving doe-eyes with still lips; mute. Expressionless. And then, it’s fades away the more you scrub the blood off of you.

It flakes off before coagulating together, filling your nails with a thin layer of it. You get so distracted in your bloodbath that you forget about the pain in your gut, the fresh bruise blooming above your left eyelid. You take another step into the water, feeling the grainy pebbles slip and slide underneath your toes. You’re surprised that no one’s around at this time. But, then again, it’s somewhere around three in the morning.

You doubt that anything would be awake right now.

Anything except you.

You scrub until your skin slightly stings; you need to get all of it off of you. You pluck wilting flowers from your hair, spreading them throughout the water until they become waterlogged and drown under the blood-and-mud filled water.

If you don’t they’ll find you. _They’ll find you._ Albeit the thrill of committing a crime was relieving, more so when you did it on someone you found to be an annoyance, you wanted to be under the radar for just a bit longer. This town, this place you drove into an hour ago, seemed to be just the place where you can rebuild yourself.

It worked for a little bit in Rainbow but - 

_He stole your phone._

_It didn’t take long for you to realize that; you found them to be handy tools and you used it to play music. But he took it, and soon enough your face was twisted in rage and your reached for the nearest bone-saw in your room. You thundered throughout the main house, your boots clamoring against the spruce floorboards before you’re storming outside and towards the abandoned (though, the entire land you were living on was abandoned) shed._

_Your head was full of cotton, drowning out your finer senses and replacing your muteness with rage. This wasn’t the school playground where everyone could’ve seen you torment your friend for angering you; this wasn’t the park where a snarky mother made you drop your mask. This was Rainbow. This was your home._

_There would be no one to stop you this time._

_You push through the shed door, your shadow casting over the man’s battered and terrified form. The tiny glimmer of light from outside is as good as gone when you close the door, the only thing illuminating the shed being your phone: in the clutches of the man’s big hands. You don’t waste another time, not in the mood for anymore games. It’s now or never. You were generous enough to help him when he crashed his car a couple of months back._

_He said his name was Jonathan Scott, thirty-four, and was a married man with two children. He talked about his kids a lot, and being a lumberjack he rarely spent much time with them. He talked about his wife too, a teacher, and begged you in the early hours of the morning to let him go. You didn’t, of course._

_You start by giving the freedom he’s wanted since you put the chain on his ankle. He screams and cries and begs, more so when you free his ankle from his leg. It’s his punishment though, and every part of your mind gets so loud that you have to listen to it. Too many ideas and thoughts pile up in your mind - in your normal day-to-day life, these intrusive thoughts were an honest pain to deal with - and it gets to the point where your thoughts become your actions._

_You’re holding so tightly onto the bone-saw that your hand aches, being a woman under six feet with an average build made it hard to handle extreme work (even if you craved it). You don’t waste any time after the ankle. If he used the emergency call button on your phone, then the police were surely to come. Jonathan didn’t go down without a fight though, kicking you in the stomach - so hard that you were sure that he had broken a rib from the sharp pain in your side - and punching you in the face._

_When it’s over, you burn everything._

_The shed, the house, Jonathan’s car. Everything -_

...was wrong. After the anger went away and you had driven out of the woods, you checked your phone only to realize that Jonathan hadn’t called the police. He must’ve been so weak that he couldn’t even unlock it. _Oh well,_ you muse, continuing to wash yourself. _Guess I’ll have to start off fresh here in...Derry? Yes, Derry, that’s what the sign said._

It had been awhile since you reintegrated yourself back into society.

You only went to the store back in Rainbow to buy the essentials, and during those times you rarely socialized. You felt no need to do so. Either that or you were spending most of your time trying to rid your mind of the intrusive thoughts; but somehow, there was always one person who saw through your mask. They saw the way your eyes didn’t light up when you smile. They saw the way your face never changed out of muteness when the cashiers poured their heart out to you - as if wanting some comfort from you.

And then, as soon as they notice it: you’re out of the store and driving back into the woods once more. You had mostly purchased things for yourself, and only shared with Jonathan when he was growing frail to the point where his ribs were showing. At least now, you didn’t have to worry about catering to him. 

When you’re done washing yourself, you head out of the water and towards your car, popping open the trunk for a new change of clothes after drying your body. You pull a fresh pair of undergarments followed by a floral dress. You look at your reflection in a small mirror, lips turning upwards in a smile at your appearance.

 _Pretty,_ you think to yourself. _I look pretty._

And as soon as the happiness and pleasure comes, it’s easily washed away and your lips lose their smile. It’s almost five in the morning now, and you’re not going to waste anymore time in the woods again. Maybe the woods weren’t the thing you should’ve been doing; maybe hiding amongst people was your best chance as success.

You quickly put your car into drive, and head to the closest motel.

* * *

You decided to rent a room in the Derry Townhouse, instead.

The motels were too dirty for your liking, nearly comparable to the abandoned house you lived in back in Rainbow. So, you turned on Main Street and towards the nicer suburbs, finding the large building in no time. You didn’t go in right away though, despite your pushing urge to get it over with, and decided to wait inside your car. You turned off the engine and simple held your steering wheel, breathing heavily to even out your thoughts and reconstruct yourself.

After that, you head into the townhouse with thick wads of cash - Jonathan’s money with an extra hundred you pocketed from a young man fifteen minutes ago. The receptionist, or owner you supposed, sees you and pulls her tired face into a smile. You reflect her expression, showing your pearly white teeth, even if you don’t feel the same delight as she does. You learned a tip or two from a former friend of yours who was _like you,_ and face your charm upfront.

“Hi,” you greet softly. “Do you have any rooms available?”

“Of course, dearie,” _Ugh, I hate it when old people use nicknames._ “They’re $160 per night.”

Rolling the cash in your pocket, you bring it out and place it flat on the counter, watching as her eyes widen in shock. “How about,” you start, “$6,000 and you let me stay here for the whole month?” Just for good measure you lie, “I’m just a college kid with rich parents, y’know? Decided to come to Derry for a break, a quick change in pace.” You let out a giggle, feeling your cheeks strain from smiling so much. _This better get me the room,_ you grit internally.

The woman, her name reads _Mrs. Lewis_ on her chest, hastily nods. “Well I - !" she stammers out, reaching for the money like an eager old dog, “Of course dearie, why you youngsters - ” _I’m an adult._ “ - and your money! This is such a generous offer, miss...?”

“Stone,” you lie, again. “Gracie Stone.”

“Miss Stone,” Mrs. Lewis nods. “A pretty name for such a kind woman.”

You mimic her actions, watching as she brushes her silver hair behind her ear; tucking the money underneath the counter. After that she turns around, returning with a series of papers and other things to sign. Once that happens, you don’t leave any room for chit-chat, taking the papers over to a coffee table away from the counter. You sit so that you’re back is facing Mrs. Lewis, the smile on your face fading away - relieved that you didn’t have to smile anymore. 

The papers went over the basic living agreements and the terms, along with an option for mail and such. You fill in each bit of information with lies, having thought of them on the way here. Even when you were catering to Jonathan, you never used your real name. To him, you were Leah Poole. To the people of Rainbow, you were Paige Myers.

Now, you were Gracie Stone.

* * *

You lived in Derry for two years without any problems after that.

You were just shy of twenty-eight now, and you were surprised by how long you managed to last in Derry. The people, as annoying as they can be sometimes, were useful in that they rarely paid attention to you. Everyone knew everyone here, and the people knew you as Gracie Stone - the kind woman with a smile on her face. That was your mask.

And past the mask was _you._

It was a challenge to go out so much, to talk to so many people. But blending in was a necessary part of your life, now that you lived in a relatively average town. You easily got a job three days after coming to Derry, working day in and day out at a deli & butcher shop. The men were surprised that you, of all people, wanted the job - but didn’t complain when you got the work done. You only wanted it to ease the tension in your shoulders; butchering meat was better than actually handling the food.

Too many times, did you unwillingly think about wanting to poison or taint the food, so you decided on hanging around in the back to butcher. Your co-workers often joked about you being so good at your job, how you cut meat better than any other them. How you knew exactly where to cut. One of them (jokingly) said that you murdered a man. If only they knew the truth.

In all honesty, Jonathan was the only man who you had murdered.

Your dad worked at a slaughterhouse and used to teach you about how meat-cutting worked, and the different types of cuts, and what was good for different types of cooking. Derry was primarily a sheep and cattle-based town, having two major farms on the outskirts of town. Hanlon Farms and Bowers Farms.

Life became repetitive after you had everything settled out. You left for work early and came back to the townhouse around six at night, where you would take a shower and watch television to stave off your boredom. Sometimes you headed out to the park, but the amount of kids there mad your head spin with annoyance. As always, the feelings wouldn’t last long and you were left wanting to seek higher thrills. So, to fulfill that need you often went into places in Derry where no one else would go.

In the Barrens was a large sewer tunnel, which you went into often. You found plenty of things in there, toys and clothes - why most of them were made for children, you had no idea. Maybe kids went missing there, or something. The sewer tunnels seemed to go on forever, which made it a great place to continue looking. The only thing that bothered you was the smell, and the rats, so you decided to take your thrill-seeking to the Quarry - where you washed the blood off of you.

You jumped off the cliff, ignoring the ‘DO NOT TRESPASS’ sign, and into the water. The sign didn’t mean anything to you, and during the summer kids and teenagers would hang out and party there often. The old trainyards were another place where you could carry your attention to the maximum without having to worry. Worry was something that you didn’t have to think about as much, more so when you realized how shitty the police in Derry were.

You could probably murder a ton of people, and probably get away with it. But, you didn’t want to take your chances - and decided that laying low was your best option. So that’s what you did.

However, tonight was different.


	2. Helianthus Giganteus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is a species of _Helianthus_ native to the eastern United States and eastern and central Canada, from Newfoundland west to Alberta south to Minnesota, Mississippi, and South Carolina.

“Hey, can you pass me the hose?”

You nod, and pass the dark green tube over to your co-worker; Jason Porter.

“Thanks, Gracie.”

Jason takes it with a smile, a toothy grin hiding behind his thick blonde beard, his burly hands letting go of a scrubber brush. Your eyes lock onto the object before returning back to him, mimicking his smile. And then, you turn back around and continue to clean and dry the butcher cutlery. You drag a white towel - slightly stained pink with faint hints of sheep blood - over the blades, rubbing until the silver reflects your dull eyes and now-smileless face.

Behind you, Jason hums a quiet tune, one of those annoying pop songs (for a man like Jason, you were half-expecting him to hum some soft rock songs that you enjoyed yourself) that made your eyes grow dark and your lips twitch down. Your hand clutches the handle of the knife tighter, shoulders tensing.  _ It’s just us, _ you think to yourself.  _ Just me and Jason, alone. And I have so many knives. Nothing can stop me. _

And yet, there was one tiny little thing that  _ did _ stop you.

Jason was your friend.

You were surprised yourself, how long Jason managed to last in your life. Everyone else at the deli, you found useless and boring, but Jason hung out with you often and didn’t seemed bothered by your lack of response to typically frightening things. Maybe he was one of  _ those  _ people: the type that could see past your mask for who you truly were. If that were true, then you liked that about him. He always saw you for who you were, and never judged you for it.

Jason never stopped wanting to be your friend.

You were flattered, honestly, and (almost) charmed that he had enough intelligence and understanding - more than what the average person of Derry had - to hold a conversation with you. Yes, there were times where you constantly thought of criminal hobbies, some of them involving the well-being of Jason (or his family; you liked weighing your options). But at the same time, there was a small part of you that did feel some gratitude that Jason never spoke out about your behavior.

You were different.

That was all.

Growing up, you never understood why your peers and family looked at you as if you were some broken record; a computer with a flaw. You never understood until you forced yourself to, forced yourself to learn and observe - hold in your aggression until some  _ stupid _ idiot decided to parade on your life. There was a time where that happened; in the school playground, you used to punch your (former) childhood friend’s gut because it was funny to you. On prom night, you decided to cut the bratty Prom Queen’s hair while she was sleeping, just  _ because. _

And even before those times, your parents found out that you were...different. You did plenty of things as a youth; fed your neighbor’s dog your dad’s pills; broke into said neighbor’s (who was away on vacation) house to put as much things in their oven before turning it on; stole chips and got your friend framed for it...The list went on, but so did the amount of things you learned. You were good at pretending, blending in.

Mimicry the best gift you could ever be granted.

Growing up was strange, though, in that your environment was ideally “perfect”. It was a good place, a good neighborhood, well-off parents, etc. You guessed it was the reason why you felt brief glimmers of gratitude towards others; felt  _ good _ about certain things. You were trained to like certain things, trained to hide your true self and behave like a “normal” citizen. But you weren’t entirely like a normal citizen. Not at all.

You could still murder Jason and not care what happens after.

You reign yourself from your thoughts, realizing that you had been brandishing the same knife with the towel for at least - you paused to glance at the clock - five minutes. Your fingers loosen, placing the knife beside the other tools before grasping the large cleaver stained with blood. You think back to your first day in Derry, washing the blood off of yourself.

Starting a new life. And just moments before that, you ended your old one.

You and Jason continue to clean the butcher shop with ease, with him setting the equipment away while you finished the knives. You resist the urge to jam one into Jason’s back, shakily hanging them in the cabinet before securely locking the shelves with a key. Jason returns from the closet handing out his hand once you begin to unwrap your apron.

“So,” he starts.

“So...?”  _ Get to the point already. _

“Laura’s birthday is tomorrow.”

“And?” you raise a brow. “I know. You told me.”

“I mean - ” Jason stops, frowning. “Are you still up for her dinner night out?”

“No.”

“Are you sure - ?”

“No,” you turn, giving him a pointed glare. “I told you I don’t do parties.”

“I know but I,” he trails off, taking in your expression.

And just like that, he backs down.

Jason’s lively hazel eyes glimmer in a knowing, cautious look. You calculate his every movement, watching the way his shoulders tense, his hand resting just above your shoulder - where he was about to lay it. You see his mouth close firmly and even if you were a foot shorter than him, the way you stand (tall and proud) makes even the burly Jason Porter shrink back. He lets out a sigh of defeat, nodding and hanging his head low. He lets out a chuckle, and you take note that it’s slightly breathless.

He’s nervous; afraid. Afraid of you.

“It’s...nevermind,” Jason shakes his head. “Sorry for asking, again.”

You shrug. “It was a stupid question.”

You reach past him to grab your bag, snaking a hand behind your head to untie your hair and discard your hairnet. As you’re doing this Jason grows rigid at your words, showing that same unease and fear around you. He was always terrible at hiding what he was thinking; though, it was quite easy for you to recognize the emotions, seeing as though you mastered them yourself.

“Well, I mean,” he sighs. “Laura likes you. A lot.”

_ “I don’t like her,” _ was the response you were going to vocalize, but bite it down. You remembered telling Jason that before - that you didn’t like Laura Porter, his wife. She was annoying and a spoiled wretch in your eyes. She thought herself to be pretty when in reality, she wasn’t, and even the ugliest woman in the world was prettier than her. You were able to hide that distaste though with your charms, often using Laura to your advantage - borrowing  _ (stealing)  _ a few of her things here and there.

Instead, you nod but avert your gaze.

“Alright. I’m leaving now. See you tomorrow.”

You exit the building before Jason can form a reply.

It’s cold, even in the month of June. Days in Maine were like that. You pull the sleeves of your bomber jacket over your arms, nose scrunching up at the smell of meat surrounding you. That was the downside of working at a butcher shop: the smell. While you didn’t mind the metallic scent of blood, or feeling it through nitrile gloves - you hated the smell of the meat.

You reach for your keys, disdain written clear all over your face. When you get home, the first thing you were going to do, was take a nice long shower. But you don’t get very far until you’re stopping mid-step, eyeing a figure at the end of the alleyway. That was another thing that was a bother, the only (available) exit after hours was through the back, which was the sandwiched alley known as Richards Alley.

You scowl at the figure, eyes searching past the flimsy streetlight that illuminates the figures backside; completely shrouding their front with pitch black darkness. You release a sigh, out of both disappointment and exhaustion.  _ Really? _ you resist the urge to roll your eyes.  _ Who’s fucking stupid enough to mug me at this time? _

You take a few steps forward - prompting the figure to step towards you, lowering one of their hands to reveal a glint in the light. A knife; a shank. A blade of some sort. Out of all of the things this person could use, that was probably the most useless. At least with a knife, there would be less blood because the blade would keep the wound closed (that is, if the person didn’t pull back). You pull yourself from your self evaluation of the situation, walking until the figure stops, as if not expecting your actions.

“I’m not scared of you,” you grit out. “Get out of my fucking way. I’m tired. I want to go home.”

“I have a knife,” he - you’re assuming it’s a man - stammers. “Give me your money.”

“What are you going to do if I don’t?” You don’t leave room for an answer.

“Exactly,  _ nothing. _ Now, let me just - ”

“Give me your fucking money!” the man yells, pointing his weapon at you.

He’s in a poor attack position, and was your height surprisingly. Annoyance and rage bubbles up in your mind, and before you know it, you’re tossing your bag to the side and sauntering over towards the man. His eyes widen when you do this, though you don’t have the capability right now to fully assess his feelings right now. “H-Hey -  _ fuck _ \- f-fucking stop right there!” he jabs flimsily, but you’re close enough that it swipes against the front of your jacket.

_ Now _ you’re pissed off.

“That’s it,” you mutter, hands clenching.

When he thrusts his hand out a second time, you dodge it, reaching out so that your hand wraps around the blade of the knife. It’s cool and digs into the inside of your hand, cutting into the skin of your palm and fingers. You grab until you hiss and bare your teeth out of pain, wincing but directing enough force that it makes the figure let go of the weapon. Adrenaline rushes, cotton fills your head, and your nerves are singing at the relief of acting on your impulses.

You act before you think, swiftly reaching a leg to kick at a vulnerable spot in the man’s leg, causing him to stagger. It’s at that moment where you unfurl your hand and switch positions, holding the bloody weapon with your free one; and then,  _ you’re _ the one attacking him. Your other hand stings with unbearable pain, even as you’re grabbing his hair and tilting his head up. Slicing the neck would make it fast and easy, and he wouldn’t have to scream too.

You swiftly drag the blade across - watching as the wound turned from a thin red line, into a gaping mess of pus and blood. You release your hold on him, breathing heavily as his hands reach up and grasp at his neck. He’s choking and sputtering out, and underneath what little light there was; there were tears in his eyes. Your manic face grows weary, and when you bend down it’s completely gone. You look at the man with mute eyes.

“See?” you tilt your head, shaking the knife in front of his face. “You would’ve lived if you didn’t do that.” He gasps for air like a fish, reaching out to you with a bloody hand, smearing it against your knee. Your face scrunches up in disgust and you stand up, kicking his hand away with a scowl.

“Don’t touch me,” you murmur. “You’re filthy and you ruined my jacket.”

You watch for a few moments as he bleeds out, eventually falling slack with his eyes glazed and glassy as they gaze off behind you; into the empty street and the waning moon.

All goes quiet.

And then, the butcher shop exit is opening.

You barely have enough time to react, quickly darting over to the large garbage bin that belonged to the Derry Drugstore. You let out a plethora of swears in your head, seeing Jason exit the building. He looks calm at first, with a frown on his face, but then he sees your discarded bag - and then, the man lying in a pool of blood - and immediately panics.

“Holy shit! What the - W-W-What the fuck? How!? Gracie?  _ Gracie?!  _ Oh shit, Gracie where are you?”

You watch as he scrambles over to your bag, and then clamors over to the now-dead body, turning it over to get a better look at it. While he’s doing that, you weigh the options in your mind before ultimately making a decision. You have enough room in your basement (you bought a house in Derry too, after it became apparent that Mrs. Lewis died of a heart attack) to house a person. Jason might be a hard case, but you’ve had worse from Jonathan.

You silently sprint-crouch behind Jason and raise the back of the blade high above your head. You swing it down -  _ hard  _ \- so that it makes an audible  _ thump _ against Jason’s head. He falls to the ground without another second, unconscious.  _ (But not dead, unfortunately.) _ Once the adrenaline died, you were left with your hands on your hips, and you shaking your head.

Another mess you had to clean up. But little did you know, your actions woke up something.

Something vile. Something _ unnatural. _

Something ancient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More character building! And we're getting to know our Reader a bit more! Like I said, this story is going to be heavily different from my other ones, and the characters are no exception. This Reader is definitely different from my _Breaker of Beams_ Reader, but it makes me wonder which one would win in a fight.
> 
> Please leave comments if you have any! (Each chapter title is named off of one of my favorite Perennials.)


	3. Asclepias Tuberosa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is a species of _milkweed_ native to eastern North America. It is commonly known as butterfly weed because of the butterflies that are attracted to the plant by its color and its copious production of nectar.
> 
> Chapter is a direct continuation from the previous one.

It didn’t take long for you to hide the man’s body in the trunk of your car, clean your face up, and make the alley look as if nothing had happened in it. Once you were done, you wrapped your arms around Jason’s body and dragged him to a wall, sitting him upright - all the while he was unconscious. You hid the knife and your ruined jacket with the man’s body, and simply waited once you were done. You stared blankly at Jason, waiting for him to wake up.

And when he did, you made your features change into one of panic and fear; even if you didn’t feel such things. “Oh my god,” you breath, bending in front of Jason. You gently grasped his face, tilting it from side to side as he slowly rose from unconsciousness. “Jason? _Jason?!_ Hey, stay with me buddy.”

“W-Wuh...? What? I - ” he groans, grasping his head. “Gracie? What are you...” he trails off, with you tilting your head in (faux) curiosity at his confusion. And then, when he gathered himself, he let out a gasp, opening his eyes widely and pushing you to the side. “Oh shit,” he starts off, in a trembling voice. “The body. Gracie. There was a fucking body!”

It was amusing to hear his words die when he pointed to where the dead man was, only for him to stop and realize that there was nobody at all. Nor was there any blood on the concrete. With your face still contorted in worry, you placed a hand on his arm, frowning.

“What do you mean?” you ask. “There’s nothing there.”

“No,” he violently shakes his head. “I _know_ what I saw. He was just here...”

“Jason, are you okay?” you purse your lips. “I found you on the ground. _Unconscious._ I think you fainted and hallucinated.”

“I - ” he says, sighing out of defeat.

To him, you were right. The last logical thing he remembered was him exiting the building and seeing the body. And with you being there, and him waking up; you were confident that he’d believe your claim. That he fainted and you were there to help him. You lead him to the wall for him to lean on it, allowing him to speak.

“Why are you here?” he questions, finally dropping the topic. Still, his eyes remain where he had seen the body. Jason looks down at you, as if trying to read you. Thankfully, he’s too dazed to doubt your character right now.

“I left my charger inside,” you lie. “I came back, and found you. I was worried.”

“You? Worried? That’s the day the world ends.”

“Hey. You’re my friend. I worry about you.”

At least _that_ bit wasn’t a lie.

Jason buys into it, motioning his head to the now-locked exit. “Did you want to get your charger still?”

“No, it’s fine. I have more at home,” you add, “...are you okay, though?”

“Peachy,” Jason waves his hand. “I’m probably just tired. Stressed for Laura’s birthday, y’know?”

You hum, hiding your grimace at the mention of his wife. At least their kids weren’t so bad; but Sydney - the younger one at six months - had a tendency to cry a lot, which you _hated._ You sigh, and step away from Jason to cross your arms. “C’mon, I’ll drive you home,” you continue. “You’re in no condition to walk home, and I’m scared that you’ll pass out again.”

Jason doesn’t protest, but there is some hesitance in his actions. He didn’t like to have help from others, which you admired (you liked it when a person was independent; though, you _love_ it when people rely on you - it made you feel powerful), but he trusted you enough to allow you to do whatever. So, you nodded your head and began to walk out of the alley, and towards your car. You listened closely for Jason’s heavy footsteps, nerves still aflame from the assault.

You unlock the car, allowing Jason to enter the passenger’s while you entered the driver’s seat. “Witcham Street, right? Just point to the house when we get there” you say, even though you knew the exact address.

“Mhm,” Jason nodded.

“Get some sleep, okay?” you prompt, beginning your drive down Main Street. “You need it.”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles, a deep sound that resonates in your ears. “I will. Tell me when we get there, Gracie.”

“I will,” and with that, he’s closing his eyes and leaning his head against the window.

You’re left to drive in silence, actively listening to Jason’s steady breaths; yellow beams of light coming from lampposts; watching the streetlights change from yellow to red, and then to green. While you’re driving, you’re thinking about where to bury the body. You could always bury it in your backyard.

Your house was a beautiful Victorian building with dull cobalt walls and a lovely lawn. It was the neighboring building to Derry’s infamous “crackhead house”, the one on 29 Neibolt Street. No one else had dared to move around the neighborhood, except for you. And the house had a well as well...

Wait, that’s it! The house on 29 Neibolt Street had a well in it’s basement. A perfect place to dump a body. _Yeah, I’ll just go over there and throw the body in the well,_ you conclude, driving down the junction between Jackson and Witcham. _I can just wrap it up and throw it down there. It smells shitty enough in the basement, and only kids and stupid teenagers go to that place._

When you arrive at Jason’s house, you nudge him to wake up, feeling a bit of annoyance when it takes awhile to rouse him for sleep. “Wake up,” you say coldly. “We’re here.”

“Wha...” Jason mumbles, rubbing his eyes with his coarse palms. “We’re...? How’d you - ?”

“Recognized Laura’s car,” you point at the silver Honda in the driveway. “Your kids put a shit-ton of stickers on it.”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “They’re my world.”

He doesn’t notice how you don’t smile; nor do your features crack up in shared joy. Jason grabs his phone and unbuckles his seatbelt, giving you a prompt nod and exiting the car. You roll down the window when he knocks it with a fist, calling out to you: “Thanks for the ride Gracie!” he continues, “You’re off this weekend, right? I’ll see you on Monday!”

You nod again, watch as he turns around and makes his way up the porch. When he reaches the front door, you make a swift u-turn and drive further down Witcham Street without another word, more set on getting rid of the cadaver in your trunk than anything else. No one’s out tonight, surprisingly, which makes this all the while easier for you. You speed, not really concerned about the consequences (even though you considered them; receiving punishments wasn’t something you feared - it was hard for you to get any adrenaline from fear).

You drove down Witcham Street until the suburbs faded away, and you were met with open forest on Route 2, slightly merging with the open plains that exposed the two farms and resident houses there. You hoped that the body wasn’t bleeding too much - you had covered the wound with your jacket, and hated to anticipate a mess in the trunk. You were already irked that your favorite jacket was ruined, so it was understandable (to you, at least) that you took your anger out on the one who caused it.

You silently pulled in front of the house on 29 Neibolt Street, popping open your trunk with a press of a button. You were definitely thankful of your living choices, because of the lack of people - and the excitement of living next door to a supposedly haunted house. You reach the trunk, scrunching your face at the contorted mess of the body. You reached in, sucking in a breath when you hauled the body over your shoulder.

You bring out your phone to turn on the flashlight, letting out a sigh of relief when your trunk carpet was clean without stains. Good. You didn’t want to go to the car wash, or have any questioning glances if anyone saw you washing blood from the carpets. You close the trunk and turn off your phone, pushing the rusty gate of the house - and make your way to the front door. Broken bottles and torn MISSING posters covered the dry lawn (which always surprised you; that the house’s flora was dead all-year round, even with rain), crunching beneath as you approached the front door.

It creaks open with a loud wail, darkness filling the dusty home. You pull the front of your shirt over your mouth, bringing your phone again to turn on the flashlight. You squint, holding an onslaught of sneezes; and search for the kitchen. The interior of the house, so far, was styled like your own - and finding the basement wouldn’t be hard - which was a relief. You didn’t want to spend more time than you needed looking for the basement.

The air was thick with mold, and a heavy presence: but what it was, you had no idea. You saunter towards the kitchen, flashlight landing on the closed door that most likely led to the basement. The floorboards creak under your shoes, cobwebs land on your face every now and then - but the only reaction they get from you is a cough or sneeze. Anyone else, you assumed, would’ve bolted out of the house. Especially now, when it was well off into night.

You find the basement, head down the stairs, and find the damp well. You don’t waste any time, nor your thoughts, for further commentary - leaning over the mouth of the well, and drop the body. You listen to it thud and slam against the walls, and endless sound that echoes until it reaches further down. You don’t move from your position, listening for it to land.

And you listen. And listen. _And listen._

“Time to go home,” you mutter, curious at the lack of the body landing. Maybe the well was really deep? _(Then again, it was made in the 1600’s, and you doubted that any sort of pilgrims had technology to complete such a feat.)_ Still, you did what you came here to do, and you wanted to make yourself a nice meal and watch some episodes on TV.

You make your way out of the basement, heading towards the front door - humming a quiet tune with relaxed shoulders. It’s not until you’re halfway through the front lawn, when a loud slam resounds behind you. Unphased, but not expecting the sudden noise, you slowly turn around and see that the front door has shut on its own. You blink, staring at it for once second. Then another. And then, you’re turning on your heel and continuing your way back to your car.

Yup, it’s definitely haunted.

* * *

It wakes up to the sound of screams and pleads.

It could feel the violence stirring it awake, rousing it like a dragon resting on a pile of gold. Only, It was no dragon, and it’s lair was certainly no pile of gold. The sewers and cavern it resided in were cold and damp, bringing a dull ache to its physical form as memories began to flood; a faint hunger settling in its gut. It remembered clearly, the events that happened twenty-seven years ago. _The Losers._

Yes, it remembered them all. And it couldn’t wait to -

It stops its barrage of thoughts, eight limbs halting in their tracks. Someone has died, it can see all; _feel_ all. It can practically smell the rank fear of man in its nostrils, like blood in the water its hunger becomes its priority. It shifts into a more favorable form, eight limbs turning into a set of two legs and two arms - donning a silver suit accented by red and ginger. The ground beneath it fades, and its form lands in the shadows of an alleyway.

The smell of blood is stronger now, and so is the smell of death.

It catches the scene of a woman crouching over a man, a man it realized who was dying by its own weapon: which is held by the woman. So, this is what woke it up. It should’ve been impressed that such a small creature, a female of mankind no less, was able to overtake a man. But it has seen it all. It has been woken up by more unspeakable things; things that wouldn’t compare to a simple violent murder, but there’s something else that catches its attention instead.

The woman does not feel. Her face may be contorted in annoyance, but her mind reads the truth - there is nothing but a want for power and control. Her mind tells a story of violence, enacted by her and her only, and the longer it pries into her mind, until it knows everything and anything about her; it comes to a dawning conclusion. This isn’t the first person that she’s killed. It stops, checking her mind again for a confirmation - and simply _stares._

It’s almost as if its staring into a mirror.

Watching a predator taking in their prey, only, she also takes the evidence with her and makes it seem as if nothing has happened. Another man, unconscious by her hand, is held by her with crude gentleness. It looks at the event with awe, watching as the woman changes her expression and tone as soon as the man wakes up. She uses a type of charm similar to it, drawing in her prey until she has what she wants.

Strange enough, she seems to have no intentions of harming this one - despite the fact that her thoughts range from nothing but violent actions to sudden morbid ideas. _A friend,_ It concludes with boredom and disinterest. It continues to observe, pushing back its growing hunger to study the woman in its domain.

She takes her friend to his home, and then goes to _It’s_ home. Once more, it’s surprise when it reads that her intentions; sure, most murderers that stumbled in Derry usually dumped things in the Kenduskeag, or the Canal. But _never_ the well. It’s a smart move on the woman’s side, It muses, because the well stretched on for _miles_ \- far down until it reached It’s resting place. And when she leaves the house, It can’t help but scare her by slamming the front door. But it’s met with surprise once more when she merely shrugs it off.

It comes to another dawning conclusion.

She does not feel fear.

 _(And for a creature like It, who knew how to incite fear better than anything else, this was more than interesting.)_ Suddenly invested by this individual, it watches until it grows bored when it realizes that the woman has no immediate intentions to murder or maim for the rest of the night. So this was a one-time thing. It would have to change that.

But for now, it had other matters to tend to.

It finds an easy target, a young boy afraid of monsters under his bed, and quickly gets to work. It’s form shifts into a dark mass of monsters compiled under the boy’s twin bed, calling his name with a gritty voice that shudders against the windows. Claws and talons drag against the floorboards, waking up the boy - the smell of fear is rank and causes drool to escape a closed trap of serrated teeth. “Brucie...” it taunts, letting out a cackle when the boy calls out for his parents. It calls his name with the voice of the boy’s father, both terrorizing and adding an additional fear to the mix. “Brucie, let me come out and play...”

Normally, it would be charmed and indulge in the thought of playing with its food - but it has just woken up, and its awfully _starving._ After having an unsuccessful feast thanks to those Losers, and a lost rest, its more than eager to take a bite at any chance it can. One of its arms shifts into a sharp blade, and it swings through the bed, prompting a scream from a boy. Even as it grasps the boy by his shirt and drags him under the bed; jaws opening to take a hefty bite out of the boy’s head.

All the while, It thinks about the woman in the back of its mind.


	4. Hydrangea Petiolaris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> is a species of _Hydrangea_ native to the woodlands of Japan, the Korean peninsula, and on Sakhalin island of easternmost Siberia in the Russian Far East.

Back on Neibolt Street, you had just finished showering and making yourself a measly dinner. You weren’t an expert at cooking, but after having to take care of yourself (plus Jonathan for over three months); you snatched a few techniques here and there. Your home was immaculate and without flaw - a perfect home for a perfect person. People were always impressed by your ability to clean and tidy up, it was just something you took pride in, especially when you were praised for it.

Praise, was something that you constantly craved. It felt good to be praised, especially since you _knew_ you deserved it - and it always felt good when people realized that they needed to worship and serve you. That was the way things should’ve been in life. You on top, with everyone else doing your bidding.

After finishing dinner and washing the dishes, you head to the laundry room with a basket in hand, bringing out your clothes once the tell-tale sound of the dryer beeps to life. Life in Derry, as much peace as it brought, was _boring_ \- and you hated being bored. Maybe you’d finally up and start spicing your life up a little bit. Maybe you’d find a guy to play with; make him feel loved and crush his hopes when you’d tell him that it was all just a game.

You thought about doing that to Jonathan, but he was well-off and convinced that he was going to see his wife, that you settled against it. Jonathan was only fun to torment physically, nothing more. It was _maddening_ when he didn’t do what you wanted, that usually earned a kick or two from you. Maybe a punch when you felt like it. You liked his resilience at times, but sometimes you just wished that he’d _shut up_ for once. Thankfully, he was gone now, and you didn’t have to worry about him anymore.

 _Good riddance,_ you huff, heading upstairs to your bedroom. _Taking care of a human being is fucking hard._

That’s why you always settled on the idea of just murder; even if the idea of chasing and kidnapping was incredibly tempting and exciting. It was a hassle to cater to another person, more so when they’re susceptible to making an attempt at escaping. Jonathan tried to escape multiple times, and that usually had earned more than just _the boot_ from you. But Derry was a small town, and it was your own little play-pen to do anything you want. _Anything._

As you’re folding your clothes, you can’t help but think back to Rainbow.

* * *

_February 10th, 2014_

A truck had crashed into a spruce tree not too far away from you.

You were gutting a deer when it happened, the loud crash and bang from the collision prompting you to look up sharply. You wrapped the deer up in cloth, cleaned your knife with a towel, and quickly headed out of your cabin. You followed the source of the sound, calmly walking through the snow, unbothered by the weather - clad in only a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. You continued to walk until you reached a gravel path that was rid of snow, seeing the bright red paint from a mile away.

A man was standing outside of the car, his hands on his head and looking at the vehicle with furrowed brows. He seemed distressed, his face a cherry red from the cold. You decided to approach him, calling out: “Hey! Are you okay?”

The man jumps, startled by your voice, and tenses his shoulders. He gives you a side-eye, presumably wondering where you came from. But he seems relieved - though, you don’t know why - at the sight of you and exhales sharply, approaching you like a lost puppy. “I crashed my truck,” he explains. His voice is a low timbre with a hint of an accent; he doesn’t sound like he’s from Maine (you aren’t from Maine either). “I swerved off the path from the gravel...I’ve been trying to call someone to pick me up, but I’ve got no reception here.”

“You’re deep in the woods,” you shrug. “No one out here for miles. Except me.” To make him calm down, it was easier for you to catch them off guard when they were calm, you turn around and point to where your cabin is. “I don’t live far from here,” you continue, “...c’mon, I’ll take you to my house. It’s cold out here.”

“No, I don’t want to impose,” he shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’ll just walk to the nearest town.”

“There is no nearest town,” you deadpan. “Like I said. I’m the only one out here.” And then, you avert your gaze to assess the situation. He rammed his truck pretty hard into the tree. There’s no way that he’d be able to drive back to wherever he came from. You, however, did have a car. “I have a car,” you explain, giving him a smile to ease his nerves. You learned that smiling always helped, and hunching your shoulders made you smaller (even if you didn’t need to do so; being that you were a relatively short woman). “I can drive you there after we get you settled, okay? There’s a blizzard coming, and I don’t want you to freeze to death out here.”

You bring out your hand, smiling again. “I'm Leah. Leah Poole.”

The man gives in - for who else did he have to turn to for help? You were the only person out here, and it was winter; and cold. Night was coming fast and you were sure that he was smart enough to accept your generous offer. He nods, lifting his own hand to shake yours. “Jonathan Scott,” he says. “Thanks for your help, by the way. I appreciate it.”

This time, your lips twitch up in a truer smile. “No problem. I’m happy to help.”

If only he knew what he had just got himself into.

* * *

_February 24th, 2014_

“Please... _Please_ let me out...I have money.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“Then why - ” Jonathan sputters, falling into a fit of coughs as a violent cold wracks his body. It was inevitable. While you had your cabin, constantly warmed by a steady flow of fire, you granted Jonathan the mercy of the shed, with a single lamp. It was better than being outside, you explained to him once, and he was lucky that you were generous enough to give him the luxury of a building. Jonathan’s hands clench, baring his teeth.

“Why are you doing this? I-I...I never did anything wrong to you. I don’t even _know_ you.”

You shrug. “Because I can. I was bored, and you were there to fix that.”

“You’re sick,” Jonathan spats. “I hope you rot in jail.”

 _“You’re_ sick,” you repeat, rolling your eyes. “You’re freezing up with a cold.”

You hold back the urge to stomp towards him and punch that perfect face of his; to scream and yell at him for being such a _brat._ You were kind enough to give him shelter and _this_ was the thanks you get? Pssht. At least you weren’t feeding him to the wolves. Though, that would be enjoyable to watch.

“Sleeping in a shed during winter is probably not the best thing to do.”

“I’m being merciful by letting you sleep here,” you continue. “You’re lucky that you can still walk, because I can guarantee that if you talk back again; me hacking off your legs is the last thing you’ll see.”

Jonathan shudders, backing away from you as his defiant features go slack with fear and dread. You feel amused by his fear, though your face doesn’t express any sort of joy. You rise from your seat in the corner of the shed, taking the chair with you and leading the shed without another word.

You’d come back in a few days to feed him.

But for now, he didn’t deserve that.

* * *

_Present_

It watches her from the shadows of her room, like a hawk going in for the kill; only, It was trying to satisfy its curiosity for her, and not its hunger. It was satisfied with the boy it had devoured hours prior, and now decided to spend the remainder of its time observing the one who had woken them up. She was asleep right now, tucked in her bed as the hours droned by. All the while, it continued to watch her, going so far as to leaving the confines of her closet - to stand right in front of her.

Her features continued to remain stiff and blank, even in sleep, and she showed no signs of pleasant dreams or terrifying nightmares. It checks her mind, confirming its suspicions and feels more curiosity pile on. It reaches a tentative finger and pokes her cheek, wondering if she’d stir from sleep. She doesn’t, leaving It to pry and take in every little thing about her. Her room is nearly barren, sans a half-empty bookshelf, a desk with a technological device _(It was mildly impressed by man’s mild improvement over the years while it was resting.),_ and a nightstand. 

Simple. Barren. Like a display.

Her room was certainly different from other ones it had been in. While everyone else’s had shown a flair of personality, hers was more like a...facade than something that showed her true colors. She didn’t even have any picture frames of her with her loved ones, though by now It came to a conclusion that she didn’t have any of the sort; she considered her own “friend” to be just an acquaintance, in the end. The only pictures in her home were of landscapes, places. Her clothes seemed to be the only thing that showed a resemblance that a person lived in this home.

It feels almost _melancholic_ looking at it all, even if it doesn’t outright admit it. This room reminds it of its lair in the sewers; the cistern with the caravan and gargantuan pile of toys. As “homely” as it tried to make the cistern, it lacked any general connection to the items inside - it was just a display of It’s character, Pennywise. And like this woman’s home, this room was merely a display of her own character that she had built to hide her true self.

It feels a strange tug in its chest, thinking about this.


	5. Crocus Flavus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is a species of flowering plant in the genus _Crocus_ of the family Iridaceae. It grows wild on the slopes of Greece, former Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, Romania and northwestern Turkey, with fragrant bright orange-yellow flowers which Tennyson likened to a fire.

You went about your usual routine the next morning.

You weren’t going to let murdering a man bother you - he was a mere nuisance, and it was easy to get rid of all of the evidence; even if you hated the fact that it cost you your jacket. Oh well, you could always get a replacement. The man couldn’t be replaced, but if he was willing to stoop down so low as to _mugging_ for money, then he deserved it. If you had more time, you would’ve enjoyed bringing more pain to him, but alas, that wasn’t the way the world worked.

The last thing you wanted, was for Jason to walk in on you skinning your attacker.

That wouldn’t have ended well for Jason. No, not at all. As much of a lover of high risk as you were, you weren’t stupid - you needed to be smart on things and plan before taking action. Obviously no such thing occurred last night, and you were lucky that you live on a street where no one would pay attention to your activity. 

You pause your internal thinking when a sound cuts through your home. Someone’s knocking on your door. Frowning, you pause in your chores and force yourself to leave the confines of your room. Your movements are silent as you’re trudging down the stairs and towards the front door, like a ghost; like you were tying to mimic something inhuman. Maybe you probably were. You certainly didn’t feel like a regular person, and you’ve lived your entire life feeling ostracized for your behavior. _(Which, did make you feel frustrated sometimes - you couldn’t help yourself. You were born like this.)_

Calling yourself inhuman wasn’t too far from the real thing.

Upon opening the door, you’re met with a strange sight. A man is at your front door. A man that’s well-dressed, adorned with high cheekbones and deep, dark brown eyes. A man whose hair is swept to the side, with a few strands astray here and there, and he’s holding a well-decorated basket in his right hand - filled with an assortment of baked goods. Oddly enough, it’s exactly the kind of baked goods that you enjoy eating; not to mention the fact that they seem to be filled with your favorite toppings and flavor.

Just as he’s about to open his mouth to speak, you promptly shut the door in front of his face and put the three locks on it without another second to spare. You’d like to imagine the man’s reaction; maybe he’s shocked, or maybe he’s confused and mad. Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway. You weren’t interested in whatever the man was selling, or doing - even if you were suspicious of the fact that his basket was full of sweets that you enjoyed eating.

The front door knocks again, this time it’s a bit more forceful.

Your brow twitches and your lips tug down into a frown.

Your first instinct is to climb over the couch and reach past a hole you had torn into the furniture, your fingers clasping around a smooth handle. When you pull your arm out, you’re met with the shiny glint of a blade - your dull reflection showing as a blurry visage. You had plenty of knives stored around the house, usually taped behind furniture; or even left inside drawers - usually, the ones in your room. You never left any weaponry in public spaces (few as they came you somehow managed to have people come over), but they were _everywhere_ in spots where people least expected them.

You throw the knife up a bit, fixing your hold on it so that you could hold it behind your back. The door knocked once, then twice, and then you were unlocking the door as fast as you had locked it. You were met with the same man, only, he had an unreadable expression; only raising your suspicion. It was never good when you couldn’t read a person’s expression immediately. That either meant one of two things.

One, you were interacting with someone who was like you. Or two, they were suspicious of you as much as you were with them. You were hoping that it was the latter - you didn’t like knowing that you weren’t special, that there were others like you. You’d rather be the only person who was... _unique,_ than be one of many who had a similar mindset like you.

You force yourself to smile, tilting your head like a puppy would. “Hello?” you ask in a sickeningly sweet voice, making a point that you weren’t enjoying this man’s presence at all. “Did you need something?”

The man stops, almost taken aback that you were acting nice to him. Was he expecting you to be a full-out asshole? Was he expecting you to be upfront with your sourness towards him? Especially after shutting the door in front of his face? You lean on your hip, standing in a way that made you seem more innocent than like a person who was holding a knife behind them. The man regains his posture, pushing the basket of goods closer to you.

“I just wanted to finally say hello to my neighbor,” the man replies in a sing-song voice, giving you a toothy grin. “I moved here a few days ago, and I noticed you were the only person on the street. So...I decided to make this for you!”

You stare at him silently, assessing his words and his body language. For the most part, he seems relaxed and cool, speaking with a charm that you were all-too familiar with. It was the type of charm that _you_ used on others; hiding your true intentions. However, you brush the questions away for a different one _(for example: How did you never notice this man moving in on Neibolt Street?),_ pointing to the basket with your free hand.

“How did you know what kinds of things I liked to eat?”

“Your friend,” he elaborates, “Jason. The big dude with a beard? I bumped into him yesterday, and told him that I moved on this street...He got all excited and told me everything about you.”

 _Jason fucking Porter and his big mouth,_ you groan internally. You nod, letting out a soft sigh. “Yeah, that sounds like Jason.” You pause, a more genuine question coming to mind.

“So, where do you live, exactly?”

“Over there.” The man steps to the side, pointing to a building two houses away, across the street. Lo and behold, is a U-Haul truck along with a brand new silver car in the driveway. The U-Haul truck is half-open, where you can briefly see some furniture along with some poorly-made moving boxes. It’s a legitimate display, and you easily believe it, though there’s still more you need to know before you can actually trust this man. Of course, you were still holding a knife behind your back.

“So, what got you to live in Derry, Maine?” you ask.

“Just some old friends,” he answers vaguely. “This place is my...home.”

“This place is a fucking dump, that’s what it is.”

The man’s brow twitches in annoyance, and you can see the way he grimaces; however, there’s a strange glint in his eyes that tells you that he’s interested in what you have to say. He exchanges the basket between his hands, and you can’t help but note how the baked goods never lose their heat - steam rolling off of them and wafting a sweet scent into your nostrils. Admittedly, you’re a bit hungry and want to indulge in whatever this man has.

However, the other part of you tells you that you shouldn’t trust this man. For all you knew, he could’ve poisoned it all and you would’ve eaten them without a second thought. But you knew better than that.

“Robert.”

You look at him, perplexed. “What?”

“My name,” he - Robert - clarifies, “is Robert. Robert Gray.”

He lifts one of his hands for a handshake.

“Gracie Stone,” you reply flatly.

You don't shake his hand.

Robert lowers his hand, slowly, as annoyance drifts across his face upon the realization that you weren’t going to return the handshake. Still, he stares at you as if you’re something interesting; a rarity. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Gracie.”

“I can’t say the same.”

“Ouch,” Robert winces. “That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?”

“Didn’t know I was here to impress.”

Normally, you _would_ do everything in your power to outdo yourself - build that beautiful reputation for yourself. But something inside told you that you didn’t need to do so with this man; you just didn’t want to waste your time with him. You hated talking to people who were like you, you hated it when people tried to use their charms on you. It was annoyance, and repetitive. Often times, they failed to impress you - since you were used to acting like them.

You were jaded to “charming” people.

Robert, being tall enough, peers over your head and into your house. “Nice place you got here,” he continues, his voice holding a curious and admirable tone. “May I come in?”

“No.”

“Oh,” he trails off awkwardly. “I guess I’ll just go...”

That was the typical behavior for someone who wanted to go inside, pretending that they were sad until the person gave into their wants. However, you weren’t like that and in response you nodded and promptly shut the door in front of Robert’s face. You triple-locked the door, letting out a sigh of relief as you were finally able to do as you pleased. _I don’t like him,_ you muse. _He’s suspicious, and Jason would’ve told me if I had a neighbor. Unless Robert is..._

You stop that thought, wondering if you were finally caught. Was Robert a policeman? A private investigator? Was here to arrest you? Was that why he moved in without you noticing? How long had he been in Derry?

An annoyed grunt escapes your throat, and you frustratedly tossed your knife into the sink, stomping towards the front door again. You needed to know more about Robert, now that these crucial questions came up. The last thing you wanted to be, was arrested. You weren’t scared of prison, you were just annoyed that being arrested would get in the way of your life.

Waiting thirty years or more in a cell was less than ideal.

And so, you unlocked your door and jogged after Robert. “Wait!” you call out, raising an arm. Robert was slow enough that he had just left the porch, turning around with wide eyes. “I’m sorry,” you lie, pretending to sound apologetic and breathless. “We got off on the wrong foot. I just woke up and I was annoyed...” You cast your gaze, pouting with crossed arms.

“Can I make it up to you?”

“Of course,” Robert replies. “What do you have in mind?”

“The Barrens. Tomorrow morning.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always greatly appreciated!  
> Let me know what you think! <3


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